


Papers found amongst the personal effects of Dr John Seward, 17th September 1896

by owl_coffee



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Epistolary, Guilt, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insomnia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owl_coffee/pseuds/owl_coffee
Summary: I thought I saw a bat flapping at my study window last night, beating its wings and scratching sharp little claws against the panes.  I started up, spilling my ink-pot, but found when I went to investigate that there was nothing there; just the curtain fluttering in the night breeze. This morning I sit here in my study, still dwelling upon the eerie experience. I know very well that I ought not to entirely trust my senses when I have just taken a dose of nerve-tonic, but I am almost sure that it was real. Perhaps it is nothing — they are naturally occurring creatures, after all. Yet I feel that I must at last make this account; I know not what to do, other than to set it all down.





	Papers found amongst the personal effects of Dr John Seward, 17th September 1896

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WilliamLazenbyotch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilliamLazenbyotch/gifts).



I must set it down. God forgive me, but the account I gave to the Harkers and Van Helsing of our dreadful trip to Transylvania, while sufficient, was not complete. I did not dare disclose the events of which I now write. And now there may come a reckoning.

I devised a code in which to write this account, which pride tells me might not be penetrated by many men. But in the end I force myself to write in plain English, and trust to the place of concealment where I hide these sheets — and if need be, where they may be discovered by those I care for, if this is not mere mad delusion. If this is found by any of my friends, do not, I pray you, suffer Mrs Harker to read it, whatever her condition of health. Such a good, true heart should not read of my weakness and betrayal.

I thought I saw a bat flapping at my study window last night, beating its wings and scratching sharp little claws against the panes. I started up, spilling my ink-pot, but found when I went to investigate that there was nothing there; just the curtain fluttering in the night breeze. This morning I sit here in my study, still dwelling upon the eerie experience. I know very well that I ought not to entirely trust my senses when I have just taken a dose of nerve-tonic, but I am almost sure that it was real. Perhaps it is nothing — they are naturally occurring creatures, after all. Yet I feel that I must at last make this account; I know not what to do, other than to set it all down.

As the main record tells, we split our party at Galatz, the better to pursue the Count's vessel; Lord Holmwood and Jonathan Harker taking a steam launch up the river Sereth, Quincey Morris and myself to follow by land with horses. I will set down the events of those final days as carefully as I can — with all their damning details. As Stevenson has it, I am troubled by "poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the irrevocable past". Perhaps what I recount is coloured by my subsequent brain-fever: unquestionably I was in a fragile state of mind at the time and what I saw and felt cannot be trusted. But you shall read, and judge for yourself.

 --

It was dawn on the 30th October when we started out on our long ride. We began by taking two local men with us for the first stages, to ride and lead our spare horses. We had a good set of them, six in all: a couple of fiery chestnuts — one with a white blaze — a steady bay, two hardy pintos and a placid grey mare that I thought might do well for Mrs Harker, should she need to ride.

The first day was cheerful. We were fresh from our rest at Galatz and felt eager to be on the trail, glad to finally be doing something active rather than waiting about. The two men we had hired, Stefan and Luka, seemed willing enough, though their English (as I had feared) was not good. We communicated mainly by gestures, letting them know when we wished to rest the horses and when to ride. We rode the chestnuts and found them easy to control and full of energy.

"On the hunt together again," Quincey said to me, smiling. "I can't think of a better companion-in-arms to ride against our enemy with. Not gotten too soft from your days as a country doctor, I trust?" he teased.

I laughed at him, my adventurous blood roused. "Judge for yourself!" I said, and kicked my horse into a gallop.

The country was a desolate one and we encountered no-one besides ourselves all day, though occasionally we saw a trail of smoke in the distance, indicating the chimneys of some distant cluster of houses. In high spirits we set a good pace, driving the horses and ourselves across that wild landscape until the evening drew in and Quincey found us a place to camp. He thought it would be wisest to keep a watch while we travelled in unknown territory, at least through part of the night. We relied upon ourselves to stand the watch, thinking the hired men would likely doze and neglect their duty. Quincey was determined not be surprised again as we had been on our adventures in Argentina; the memories of that time stood out vividly for both of us during those days.

"You know," said Quincey suddenly, as we sat together by the camp-fire, smoking, "I wouldn't be Art for all the tea in China, just now."

"Why's that?" I said, still in a light-hearted mood. "Because you dislike getting your feet wet?"

"No," he said seriously, "Because in our little contest to gain Miss Lucy's hand, he was the winner. I can't imagine what it must be like, to have won her heart and then to have done what he had to do."

It quite sobered me. "You're right, of course. I don't know if I'd have ever had the courage to do what Art did in that tomb. He was like a perfect Thor in his courage and strength."

Quincey nodded and took a puff from his pipe. "What a terrible business," he said quietly.

"We'll get our revenge," I said. "We must, at all costs, remove this foul Thing from the earth."

"You're right," he said, "But it's cold comfort after what happened to the woman we all loved."

We smoked for a while in silence as the moon began to rise above the trees and the hired men finished settling the horses down for the night.

"You know, I was madly jealous of you for a time," I admitted. "When I heard that Lucy loved another, I assumed — well, I naturally assumed that it was you, Quincey."

He laughed shortly. "Really! Why naturally, can I ask?"

I said something incoherent about his being the most courageous man I knew.

He shook his head. "Ah, but courage isn't all that's needed to win the heart of a good woman," he said. He added, "I will admit, I was surprised at first to hear that Art was the lucky one."

"You thought that you might have another chance at her affections, as she grew to know you better?"

"No." Quincey knocked out his pipe. "I thought she'd chosen you, of course. You're an energetic, intelligent, remarkable man, and she'd have been lucky to have you."

There was no answer to that that wasn't a fatuous one, so I made none, just cleared my throat and knocked out the ashes of my own pipe. The moon rose further through a tracery of black branches against a sapphire sky and we readied ourselves for sleep.

Quincey was determined to have the first watch, for, he said, "I can sleep better in the saddle than most men can in a feather-bed!" He sat with his Winchester, wrapped in furs, and promised to wake me if anything occurred, and in any case before dawn. So I took my evening dose of chloral — several drops in a small cupful of water — and settled down to sleep.

When Quincey woke me for the second watch, he told me he'd heard the howling of wolves, but if there were any nearby they were not bold enough to intrude upon our little encampment — yet. I sat up with my Winchester by the fire as the light turned from dark night-blue to the palest shades of dawn, and then woke my fellow travellers. We watered the horses, took a hasty breakfast and then climbed back into the saddle for another day.

The weather was growing steadily colder, and the wind blew fiercely, but we continued to make good time and to sight the launch in the distance on the river every now and then with Quincey's glass. It seemed to me she was making good speed and had flung up a flag, though I couldn't tell at this distance why or what emblem it bore.

The hired men, particularly Luka, complained of the cold and Stefan wanted to divert to a nearby village to rest and obtain better clothing against it; but Quincey and I decided we must press on or we'd have no hope of keeping pace with the launch. I lent Luka my scarf, and we gave both of the hired servants a tot of brandy to keep their spirits up. We intended to send the men away soon in any case, so as to have enough horses to mount our entire party at need. Quincey and I decided to give them that order when we came to the village of Fundu, if we got so far as that before seeing action, where they might find shelter before turning back to their homes.

I also discovered that afternoon that we had unaccountably somehow left behind the saddle with a movable horn that I had obtained for Mrs Harker in case she needed to ride with us. I searched the saddle-bags twice before being forced to conclude that it had been lost in the confusion of our parting from the others. It was a blow — I reassured myself that our provisions at least were in order, and nothing was spoilt.

We took shelter for the night in a little copse of trees; some withered and yellow leaves of which shielded us at least partly from the harsh northern winds. We prepared our little supper on as good a fire as we could prepare in the circumstances, and ate with a hearty appetite. Stefan and Luka conversed in their native language in a low tone, clearly dissatisfied with us as employers — I am certain they were accustomed to easier tasks! They were mollified with another tot of brandy, and after settling down the horses retired to sleep. A black mood came over me as Quincey and I sat with our pipes for a while by the fire, talking and smoking.

"I'm worried that the Count seems to anticipate our movements," I said. "At least splitting our party has a chance of taking him by surprise, but I had hoped the launch would catch up to his boat sooner. I'm sure he must have some foul plan afoot. I feel a dreadful anticipation."

Quincey shook his head. "We know where he's headed, which is more than we can say for some quarries we've hunted together in the past," he said, reassuringly. "He's devilish cunning, but with your and Van Helsing's wits and our arms, we'll box him into a trap sooner or later."

"May it be so," I agreed, but a foreboding feeling gripped me. "Still, I can't help but fear the worst."

I wished I could share his good-hearted courage. We were always perfect opposites in temperament — Quincey's phlegmatic optimism and my melancholic nature. At best, we balanced one another out — and woe to our enemies! But in my darker moments I sometimes wondered what he saw in me as a friend.

"Perhaps Art and Jonathan have already sighted his boat, and even now are planning how to capture it," suggested Quincey, seeming to catch my mood. "Tomorrow we might see action. And so, we must take our rest and prepare for it. You go to bed first — I'll take the watch until late evening."

"Are you sure? I had the best of the night yesterday, and ought to take my turn," I objected.

"I insist!" declared Quincey. "I'm no doctor as you are, but a little plain Texas wisdom tells me that the best medicine for these worries is sleep. Go ahead, I'll watch over you."

A recuperative sleep did seem a good prescription. Perhaps Quincey was right, and I was merely overtaxed by our exertions. So I measured out a dose of chloral for that evening into my usual little cup of water. But before I could take it Quincey's hand caught mine by the wrist. "Say, Jack, do you always take that stuff at night?" he asked in a tone I couldn't decipher.

I nodded. "Good old chloral. It helps me overcome my insomnia — especially at times like these."

Quincey frowned and spoke in his deliberate way. "Is that so. You got enough?"

I misread his anxiety. "Oh, certainly. I brought a good supply — a full bottle." And I showed him where the little glass vessel rested in my breast-pocket. He released my limb and I took the dose without another thought.

I spoke cheerfully of chloral in my phonograph-diary: the bitter truth is that I was addicted to it. The depression and pain which attended me daily since Lucy's rejection of me, and later her death, drove me to fits of insomnia which only the 'modern Morpheus' could cure. Yet I found I needed an ever-increasing dose of the stuff to sleep soundly. By the time Jonathan Harker read the Burial Service over his still-living wife, on that evening none of us can ever forget, I was taking fully fifteen times the dose I started out on. At the time I did not even suspect there was a problem. Certainly I was getting through my supplies faster — but I am an amateur-chemist and could easily make more in my little laboratory at the asylum. It is no excuse, but I believe I was distracted by the work at hand; the mental toil entailed in our pursuit of the Count allowed for no respite in which I might have reflected on my situation. It was only when Quincey spoke of it to me that I remarked it at all.

"And can you sleep without it?" came Quincey's voice from beside the fire. Already in the grip of the drug, I could make no a coherent reply, but smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner.

I hadn't slept without its aid for longer than I care to recall.

The chloral-sleep was blessedly dreamless, as it always is. I woke full of energy, ready for another day of hard riding. The cold bit fiercely that morning and I sat enwreathed in a pall of white exhalation, watching as the fog lifted from the river and a weak yellow dawn filtered in through the black trees. It felt every inch the first day of November, a month I have always found, even in London, to be singularly bleak.

Quincey is — was, God help me — a dogged fellow, and didn't drop the topic. Though we were were in the saddle all day, he bearded me during a break we took to water the horses. The hired men were making up a fire to brew a little tea and warm us, though I had half a mind to tell them to stop and thus let us press on the faster, for we had not sighted the launch yet that day. Quincey caught me by the arm instead.

"I haven't forgotten what we talked about last night," said Quincey. "As your friend, I must tell you that drug can't be doing you any good."

"It's quite all right," I insisted. "I formulate it myself, and nothing toxic or inimical goes into the mixture — just plain C2HCl3O. H2O."

Quincey wouldn't have it. "I'm no chemist or druggist but I've seen you add more drops than you used to. You won't tell me there's no upper limit on it, Doc? No bad effects if you take too much?"

I would have flatly denied him, but the earnest reasonableness of his tone got through to me. I did remember reading some-where about the danger of making too much of a habit out of chloral; but I still did not apply this to myself.

Hastily drinking the mug of tea that Stefan handed me (the beneficial effects of which were almost negligible as the warmth dissipated so quickly in that freezing air) I turned the conversation elsewhere. "Well, perhaps; but I believe this quantity is perfectly safe. Where do you suppose we are now?" We consulted the map together and determined that we must be within a day's travel of Fundu, at the junction of the Sereth and the Bistritza rivers, where we might hope to reunite with the launch and take council with them.

"And then," said Quincey determinedly, "Things will come to a head."

That night, I sat the first watch. I heard wolves in the distance from time to time, but they did not come closer to us. Their eerie note lingered on the air like some unearthly music. As I listened and waited in the night's bitter chill, huddled by the dying embers of our fire, I felt no pangs of tiredness. It was as if, without the chloral, I had no urge to sleep whatever. I knew then that Quincey was right, and that my health must be in danger. "I'll stop completely once this business is done," I vowed to myself quietly, the white plumes of my breath's vapour ascending to the indifferent stars. They shine so brightly in Transylvania, unimpeded by the familiar fogs and street-lights of England. On a clear night, one could see thousands of stars studding the heavens.

Quincey stirred under his blanket at the sound of my voice, but I laid a reassuring hand on him and he fell back into a deeper sleep. I woke him at what my pocket-watch told me was 4am, and then took a few drops of chloral to doze until dawn. So we passed our third night.

I remember I dashed off a few optimistic lines in my journal when we began the next day, which ended up in Mrs Harker's typed account. I remarked nothing in particular, merely three days of hard travel.

\--

I must interrupt my account of days past to tell something of the present: for Mrs Harker has been crying grievously this morning and I realise I have not explained what her situation is, or why I presently fear and am making this account.

Mrs Harker — I cannot call her 'the hysterical patient' or some such mere clinical description, for even in her illness her kind and individual soul shines through — Mrs Harker came into my care a week ago, when Jonathan Harker despaired of caring for her at home. Yes! Mina Harker resides in the asylum, and not as a visiting friend, but as one of my patients.

Her madness is of a peculiar kind, and manifests itself in a way that reminds me most disturbingly of Renfield's. Each night, between moonrise and sunrise, she remains quiet and is no trouble to anyone. But during the day she grows violently roused, and will ramble, weep and clutch at the attendant and beg to look in a mirror — though she is not vain. Except for this, she remains just the same lovely creature she always was, and indeed in her lucid moments apologises to me for my trouble. Bearing a child will turn some women's brains, so I have hopes that when the little one is delivered she too will be delivered from this trouble and free to go home to her Jonathan. The case is a terrible one, and I would write to ask my mentor Van Helsing's advice on it — only I know it could not help but remind him of his own tragic situation, of Madam Van Helsing who even now paces and tears at herself in an Amsterdam asylum. Though any religious spirit I may have possessed has long been driven out of me by the events we have endured, I pray daily, desperately, that her case may have a happier outcome than that one.

Too frequently I find my thoughts full of Quincey Morris. They always dwell on him in my idle moments, but since starting this account they have become a positive mania. I even dreamed of him last night. Not a pure dream of a fallen comrade, nor a dream that I can be proud to remember. In the morning I hastened to scrub away the shameful traces, and stared at myself in the shaving-glass a long while. How can I be fit to live when he died; how can there be any justice in this world when I survive him?

\--

To return to the road in Transylvania -- we found the going harder on the 2nd November. The Sereth beside us had broadened into a series of lakes which we had to skirt around. Every half-mile seemed to bring with it a fresh stream to cross, some small and gentle, but others treacherous with slippery stones that the horses baulked to step upon, with deep spots where an unlucky man might drown. We must needs dismount, and wade through the shallowest part of each streamlet at a careful pace, until I lost count of the number of times we got down and up from the horses' backs. By early afternoon I was soaked to the waist and shivering, and Quincey was not in a much better state.

We realised we must camp soon, before we reached Fundu, even though there were still some good hours of daylight remaining, to set a fire and warm ourselves. To cap things off, when crossing the last rivulet one of the horses had strained a hock because Luka had not bothered to dismount and get his feet wet. She had sidled at the wrong time and slipped upon a loose stone. Quincey grew quite angry with him, for it became clear the placid grey mare was hurt, and all through carelessness. We made it clear to them both then, through signs and gestures, that they were in any case to leave us the next morning when we got to Fundu. Luka seemed chagrined, gathering up a great deal of wood as if to make up for his earlier failure, and made up a splendid blazing fire that warmed the whole party as we ate.

"If the case is serious, I hope there will be a replacement horse to be had at Fundu," I remarked casually as I sat before the fire. My riding-leathers were still damp with cold water, and drying out slowly. “If there is a horse worth having in this benighted countryside.”

"None as good or as faithful as the lady here," Quincey said, in a soft tone I rarely heard from him. Walking over to the grey mare, he petted her blaze, her liquid animal eyes following as he drew out a treat for her from his own provisions — a wrinkly dried apple. She stepped forward awkwardly to receive it, her injured leg clearly paining her a great deal. Quincey gentled her with pretty Texan endearments as he examined the leg, calling her his little darling and his black-eyed gal. When he rejoined me by the fire, a weight seemed to rest on him. "She's bad, Jack. In the normal course of things I'd leave her to rest a month in the hands of a good groom, and perhaps heal. But here —"

I took his meaning at once, and regretted my earlier easy words. "We could lead the mare at a gentle pace, and leave her in the care of some peasant at Fundu," I suggested. "It can't be too far away now, a few miles tomorrow and we'll arrive there."

Quincey shook his head. "She can't put any weight on the leg at all, at present. Even a walk would be too much for her." He closed his eyes briefly. "I'll get the Winchester."

"Let me do it," I said at once. I wanted to spare him that pain, though I knew far less of horses than he. But Quincey shook his head and wordlessly cleaned and loaded the gun. I believe he felt a sort of responsibility to the poor creature, for he had picked the horses out for us in Galatz.

I don't like to narrate what followed. But afterwards, though he'd done the thing like a man and without any hesitation, Quincey looked pale and sick. Perhaps feeling guilty about the horse, Stefan and Luka offered to take the watch for wolves that evening, having observed us do it the previous nights. There was certainly a greater danger of their coming upon us, drawn by the scent of the dead mare’s blood. I saw Quincey was about to reject them, but I prevented him and thanked them instead from both of us. It would be a hard few days after they were gone, and there would be time enough to watch around the clock then, I reasoned. Better for us to sleep now while it was possible to do so.

We took our rest under blankets beside the fire. The smell of snow was in the air; as I watched, a few flakes drifted down to settle on the frozen ground. Not having fully dried out from our earlier immersions, I dared not remove my clothing to change, even within the fur-lined blankets, knowing that despite our strong constitutions we were already courting pneumonia. As I shivered I lit upon the idea of joining our blankets together for warmth, as we had done in similar straits in the past, and suggested it to Quincey. The thing was speedily done, so that side-by-side with a double layer of furs above us we finally began to feel our extremities warm again. A generous measure each of brandy helped to warm us further from within. Finally we were able to remove the damp outer layers of our clothing with safety and settle ourselves to sleep.

The brandy and chloral together put me into a heavy doze, so that I was hardly aware of my surroundings. But — as chloral does not give dreams — I remember something of the night, when I must have come to the surface of sleep briefly. Perhaps it was midnight. I felt warm and comfortable, and so relaxed that I hardly knew myself. I could not move at all, but was content not to; a pair of strong arms were flung around me, and a heavy leg rested over my own. I leant my head against Quincey's shoulder peacefully, thinking in a vague way that we were back in Argentina together. Then I felt him shudder a moment, and the fall of warm tears onto my cheek. If I had not been within his arms I would not have noticed it at all, for he was perfectly silent. But I did notice, and my heart went out to his grief. I took his hands within my own, and said incoherently, "Shh, shh — it will be alright." This seemed to soothe him, for he did not make any further motion, but only clutched me tighter and kissed me. I was glad to be near him, glad to have comforted him and to be trusted with the secret of his sorrow. I was just drifting off to sleep again in the warmth of our shared blankets when I heard him say, "Oh, Lucy — " and realised that I had played the part of a phantasm to him; that he would remember this in the morning (if he did at all) as a dream of the love of our lost one. For some awful reason — perhaps the drugs that still mixed within me — I felt bitterly angry about this at the time, as I slipped back to sleep. Now, in the cold light of reason, I am glad I was able to perform that service to him; that I could help to console him in any way in what I now know were the last few days of his life.

I was woken by a strange noise, and by the cold. It filtered into my brain that it was still dark — far too early for us to ride — that the blankets had been stripped from my senseless form, that my companion was gone and that the noise was our horses screaming.

Through bleary eyes I saw Quincey standing half-dressed by the fire, and silhouetted against it the form of Stefan, who held something long and narrow. It was one of the Winchesters, and he held it as if he had shot with weapons before. Blinking, I made out more: a body, lying splayed across a fresh blanket of snow which stood out stark white in my vision. At once it came to me that Luka was shot, that Stefan was the murderer, and that my friend stood in terrible danger. But for some reason, Quincey did not grab for a weapon better than his Bowie knife, or leap toward the traitor. Then my heart quailed within me when I saw what Stefan was holding.

"Don't come nearer! Or I'll spill the Doctor's medicine!" crowed Stefan, shaking my bottle of chloral.

Quincey stood perfectly motionless as Stefan levelled the gun at him, then slowly raised his hands into the air, dropping the knife. "Don't let's be hasty, now," he said carefully. "Whatever you've been offered to do this piece of work, I can assure you our friends will double it, if you aid us instead. My word on it." I couldn't bear to see his proud nature humbled thus, and my own damnable weakness the instrument of it. Stefan disregarded me utterly, thinking, I suppose, that I was still in a stupor.

I saw Stefan stare hard at Quincey, and then frown and screw up his eyes. I perceived my friend still had hopes Stefan would be persuaded, but I had seen that look in Stefan's eyes before in other men -- he had just made up his mind to kill Quincey, and couldn't bear to look him in the face any longer. Quincey stood solid as an oak, quiet and trusting. Stefan's hand on the gun trembled as he took his aim, and in that moment I sprang forward at him.

In one confused instant we were grappling. I brought all the desperate strength I could muster against him and the gun swung about, that deadly black muzzle pointing at this, then that direction as we struggled. Quincey could do nothing to aid me, but only stand and watch helpless. Stefan bent back my fingers cruelly, so that I almost fainted with the pain, and in that instant brought the muzzle of the gun to bear under my chin. As he tightened the trigger I somehow summoned up a last reserve of energy and forced the gun away. There was a great -- bang! -- and I found myself lying in the snow in a confused heap with Stefan.

He would never hurt us again. As I watched, his face turned pale and he ceased breathing. A ragged wound in his breast let out his heart's blood to soak into the freezing drift of snow and turn it crimson. I sagged with relief, suddenly weak again. Quincey's arm under my elbow helped me up, and together we looked at the gory scene in silence. Then Quincey suddenly gave a foul oath, such as I never normally heard him use. "The d--- bottle!" he cried, and cast about desperately for it. But it was I who discovered it, and my hands which were stained by the last of the contents, for it was utterly shattered and the chloral had, but for a drop or two, drained away.

I gazed at it and the corpse numbly, starting to feel the cold break in upon my senses. "You were right. This is all my fault," I said, "If it weren't for my use of the drug, I would have been awake to aid you sooner — "

"Don't talk that way, old friend. We'll get by somehow." Quincey tried to cheer me. "The worst is over, anyhow, now that we are rid of his treachery."

I wish very much that he had been right.

\--

I fear that my personal friendship with Mrs Harker has compromised my ability to act as her doctor. Yet Jonathan Harker asked for me particularly — begged me, in fact — and I could not deny him. I can hardly bear to care for her. And yet, I do not know who might have the better chance of attempting a cure — for I alone can distinguish the reality of the ordeal she suffered at the Count's hands from her present morbid fears and fantasies. Another physician would simply assume her to be suffering a delusional psychosis. She has been very restless today, and I tried the experiment of giving her the mirror she so craves — under the supervision of an orderly and myself, to prevent her from hurting herself with it if that was her object.

"Oh, thank you, Dr Seward," she said, flying to it at once to gaze intently at her face. "It's not there." She seemed puzzled. "But it _is_ there, I've seen it! I've seen it!"

"Now, Mrs Harker, see for yourself," and as I said it I realised what I had been missing — "There is no mark upon your forehead any more. You may rest easy, for as you can see it is quite spotless."

She turned her tear-stained face to me and looked quite desperate. "I can't tell you — I've tried! I've tried to tell you — but he won't let me. Do you trust me? You must trust me!"

I could see she was getting into a hysterical state again, so I spoke quite firmly to her. "All is well, Mrs Harker, save for your own health. That is what we shall put right soon, and then you will be able to return home. Your husband will be here to see you later. Be calm, be quite calm, and rest now for the sake of the child if not for yourself."

But she started to rock back and forth in the classic sign of major-hysteria, and rubbed so hard at her forehead I was afraid she would injure herself. I had to resort to the strait-jacket then, and her heart-wringing cries wounded me so that I had to withdraw to my office. For her sake, I am determined to continue this account as accurately and comprehensively as I can, and to leave nothing out of it, even the worst.

\--

We did not have the time or the strength to bury the corpses of the hired men, contenting ourselves with heaping some stones and snow upon them. By my suggestion we cut off the head of Stefan's body and I drove one of our stakes through his heart — lest he acted under the direct control of the Count, rather than simply through monetary inducement. Quincey said a prayer, hasty but sincere, for the safety and rest of their souls. After the gory work was done and we'd cleansed ourselves as best we could in an icy stream, we saddled the chestnuts and led the rest of the horses behind us. They seemed quite dispirited and nervous from what they had seen, combined with the death of their companion, and who could blame them.

The village of Fundu was further off than we had hoped, and we reached it in the early afternoon. It was a grim little place: narrow cobbled streets giving the impression of a rat's-warren; thin-faced distrusting peasants who stared at us, spat, and pointed two fingers in our direction. We stopped at the local inn and gave our remaining horses into the care of the servants there. The addition of several local coins of high denomination seemed to rather sweeten their opinion of us, and we were beckoned inside with a gap-toothed smile from the inn-keeper. Over glasses of the local 'palinka' — a fruit brandy so strong that there is a pot of lard on the bar, a dab of which is used to coat the tongue before sipping the fiery spirit — we conversed with him in a broken mixture of English and German.

"Have you seen a steam-launch driven by two English men — men like ourselves?" I asked. "Perhaps today, or yesterday evening?"

The inn-keeper nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, they come yesterday, in morgen." Yesterday morning! We had just missed them — I reproached myself bitterly for my part in our delay.

"Where did they go? And did you hear anything from them?" Quincey asked.

He left us and went into the back room, calling out to an untidy-looking woman who must have been his wife. They clattered about for a moment. I thought he'd gone to fetch some food to offer us — I had finally started to feel hungry as we warmed up inside at the bar — but he came back with a folded piece of paper, wrapped round with a dirty bit of string and sealed in wax — with Art's seal!

Quincey opened it and we scanned the few lines eagerly.

 

_" Fellows —_

_This is in case you stop by here as we did. No news from us. With the help of an official flag, we've overhauled all the little boats that we could find going up the river, but no sign of our enemy yet. Headed up the Bistritza — that's the left fork — suggest you do the same by land. We'll look out for you at Strasba on the 5th if nothing happens before. If we don't meet you then, just ride with all the speed you can after that to the castle itself. God willing, we will prevail._

_Godalming._

_PS. As a surety, you'll remember that Maria had the sweeter tone but Gloria the better temper."_

 

This set our minds at ease somewhat and made us both smile. The inn-keeper grinned at us and refilled our glasses of palinka. "You stay tonight?" he suggested. His wife silently brought out a tray of black bread with a greasy smear of butter on it.

"What do you think?" I asked Quincey. "Shouldn't we push on?"

"Let's check on the horses," he suggested. "They could use a good night's rest somewhere warm, and if they're well-treated here then perhaps we ought to stay."

As we got up to do so I stumbled somehow and almost fell; Quincey caught my arm. "Sorry!" I was conscious of the inn-keeper looking suspiciously at me, probably barely restraining the urge to point the superstitious two fingers at the clumsy foreigner.

"You all right, partner?" asked Quincey.

"Perfectly fine," I assured him. "Just too much of this fruit brandy on an empty stomach, that's all."

"Well, you stay here a moment then — eat something and look through Art's letter in case there's anything we missed. I'll check on the animals," he said, and wouldn't allow me to get up again.

Feeling like a foolish invalid of my own making, I picked at the black bread dutifully and gazed idly at the heads of garlic and the eye-shaped amulets hanging on red ribbons behind the bar. As a man of science the sight of such things would usually amuse and disgust me as a sign of rank ignorance and backwardness; but in that moment I found they rather comforted me. We knew the Count feared garlic — who could tell what other folk-wisdom of these peasants might prove an aid for us against him?

The inn-keeper had disappeared, but his wife remained and brought out some more victuals — cold sausages, a piece of rather dubious cheese and a bowl of actually quite good chicken stewed with paprika, still hot. I dipped pieces of the bread in it and felt more myself again. The inn-keeper's wife spoke absolutely no English, but pointed to the window and made motions like snow coming down. Indeed, I could already see a few flakes — it seemed a fresh shower was on the way. Just then Quincey came through the door and helped me do justice to the rest of the meal.

"I know we must make haste," he said, "But I'm of a mind to stop here for the night rather than camping-out further down the road. The air smells like snow, and the horses are happy in the stables here. I'd like to rest them if we can."

"So be it," I agreed. "May we book a room — a lodging? Ein zimmer, bitte?" The inn-keeper's wife fetched her husband, and they arranged us a cosy little chamber upstairs with an ancient-looking four-poster — no doubt princely by local standards — heated by its own fireplace.

It seemed we had made the right decision, for no sooner had we settled into the chamber with our saddle-bags than the snow began to whirl down outside in earnest, until it seemed a perfect blizzard. I was actually afraid we wouldn't be able to ride at all on the morrow if it continued.

"And then how shall we ever catch up to them?" I said to Quincey.

"If needs must, I hear the locals sometimes travel by sledge, Russian-fashion," he said, looking out at the swirling flakes. "I'm sure with enough silver we can persuade them to lend us one. But sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof, as the good book says. Let's have a hand of cards, now that our fingers aren't too frozen to play!"

We played the American game of stud poker and then a few hands of "Old Maid", as the darkness drew in outside. The inn-keeper's wife fetched us more of the paprika stew and freshly-cooked peppered potatoes, which we found very good, though thirsty. I undressed for bed with a light heart, and in the warmed sheets almost forgot that my chloral was gone and I was bound to go rather sleepless.

Quincey dropped off in a few moments and even began to snore softly; but I was sleepless for hours, lying awake hearing the soft sounds of the snow against the window-pane and watching the flicker of the fire in the grate. He lay like a warm rock beside me and I longed to borrow his calm mind and fall into a peaceful sleep like his, but I could not manage to do it. Strange fears seized me and rioted in my brain.

At last falling into a half-doze, I dreamt of a witch with Lucy's face; it was my conviction that she was trying to open the door to the room, her long fingers creeping toward us and the handle slowly creaking downward. I woke in a cold sweat, so filled with the terror of the vision that I could scarcely breathe. Shaking off the disturbing dream I got out of bed and went to the door, but of course it was safely shut and latched. In the faint light I stumblingly leaned a chair against the door-jamb anyway — small protection against my fears. Back in the bed, Quincey made a small noise of unconscious complaint at my freezing feet, and with the aid of a measure of brandy, poured out by moonlight, I managed to slip into an uneasy sleep until dawn.

I woke in a strange position.

Now, I want to be clear before I proceed that I do not wish to besmirch the name of the dead, and I believe that his honour was completely pure of any unnatural desires -- but mine was not. As a medical man I have been able to read a great deal, and my belief is that the character of this perversion — 'inversion' as Westphal terms it — is more in the nature of a congenital abnormality that affects a few sufferers severely, rather than a sinful act that all may equally partake the risks of. Certainly most men I know seem blissfully free of it, save perhaps for in youth or on a remote journey where women are not at hand. But when I read Havelock Ellis' writings upon Sexual Inversion in Men, I sadly recognised myself, from my earliest tendencies until today. Try as I might, I could not cure myself of the vice. I know the circumstances under which I would not avoid the pit of Hell; I know them only too well. Perhaps if Lucy had chosen differently — but these thoughts are in vain.

It was early morning, the light barely peeking in at the window, and the fire had died. I lay on my side, pressed to the bed by a casual arm flung across my mid-section by the sleeper behind me. His warmth soaked into my back and I lay luxuriating in it for what felt like a long time. I was not exactly rested, but I felt steadier than I had the other day, and still a little drowsy. The bed seemed to want to swallow us — great lumps and folds of straw mattress rolled us together into a dent in the centre of the four-poster. I came wide awake when he pressed closer still against me, his breath hot against my neck. I closed my eyes briefly, and felt a spike of fierce longing that those lips would meet my throat. When they _did_ , I almost gasped aloud but managed to stay quite silent. The wanton impulse of my nature told me to remain still as long as I could; to deceive him in the manner of the previous evening while he still drowsed harmlessly unaware. I believe he must have been in a kind of waking-sleep, for he was quite active though his eyes were fast closed. I tilted my head back as he nipped at the line of my jaw, and helplessly made a noise when his tongue found my earlobe. Yet he seemed undisturbed. Pleasure and guilt mounted side by side within me, and as I tried to determine how best to wake him I felt his hand actually trace down my side toward the aching seat of my desire.

Three things happened at once. The door-handle rattled as the inn-keeper's wife attempted an entrance with a pot of coffee (hindered by the chair I had placed in my nocturnal ramble) — Quincey opened his eyes and sprang away from me to the other side of the bed — and I turned my face to the pillow, the only remedy that suggested itself to me being to childishly pretend to still be asleep.

We got up and ate, neither one of us speaking of the incident. I hoped that Quincey did not remember it, and wished hard that I had a stronger will to put it behind me. After a hearty breakfast we started out, finding the snow less deep than we had feared, dry and powdery and quite amenable to riding. There was even some watery sunshine to give the scene a cheerful air. I felt a little weak after my disturbed night, but it soon dissipated in the cold, clear, bracing atmosphere outside.

On the left-hand fork of the river the bank was rather steep, so we were forced to take a path a mile or two's distance from the Bistriza itself, which foamed rapidly in a steep and dangerous-looking climb. We rode silently except for the sound of snow slipping off branches as it began to melt, and the hooves of the horses. An hour or two of this led us quite away from Fundu and into the beginning of a hillier territory than we had yet seen. Tree-filled hollows alternated with barren and muddy heights, all still covered with a white blanket that lent a pristine beauty to the landscape.

We met a party of peasants carrying firewood home from beside the river and hailed them. When Quincey inquired for news of the launch, we heard an unwelcome tale. Apparently it had been detained by an accident when trying to force a way up the rapids. A peasant in a fur hood explained to us that the Slovak boats usually got up all right by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. But Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. Finally, our friends got up the rapids, with local help, and were off on the chase afresh. I feared that their boat was not any better for the accident; the peasantry told us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept stopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. We determined to push on harder than ever, as our help might be needed soon.

\--

Some time after noon we stopped to eat and rest the horses by a little copse of trees in a dell by the side of the crude path. Dismounting to stretch my legs, I spotted regular shapes of stone in amongst the trees, and called out to Quincey, "I say, I think this is a graveyard!"

He jumped down and looked alongside me. "How queer," he murmured. The stones were covered with snow so as to obscure them, so I brushed one carefully with my gloved hand to be certain. It was indeed a grave, carved with a clumsy dove and names and dates in the local script. The sight might be seen as an omen to a more superstitious type, but I tried to maintain a rational perspective. These local dead could not hurt us, and it would be pleasant to sit down on something other than a horse's back or the snowy ground. Telling myself it was no different than a rustic picnic in a rural graveyard in England, I brushed the snow from the top of a large tomb and sat down.

"Let's rest here a moment," I said.

"Here?" asked Quincey, frowning. "Shouldn't we move along, now we know this is a cemetery?"

"There's no danger in day-time, even if the Count were here," I said. "I think a graveyard where 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep' is below his notice, though. All that we ought to find here is peace and quiet for a time."

"Well, if you think it will be all right, I’ll join you up there," he said, and cleared himself a space beside me on the tomb. When our legs accidentally pressed against one another I believe I blushed. In idle moments I could still feel the ghost of his lips on my flesh. I attempted to keep a normal manner while I shifted casually away from him, and I think he didn't suspect anything was amiss.

So we made our luncheon there upon the bits of food packed for us by the inn-keeper. I didn't have much of an appetite, so finished sooner than Quincey. I dashed down a short diary entry, then amused myself by walking about and looking at the little piece of history we had found ourselves in.

Brushing aside layers of snow, I found that some tombs were engraved in Russian characters, some in the local script, and some — I puzzled over this — in what looked like English. Leaning closer to look at one of them, I read the name of the dead:

 

_Dr JOHN SEWARD_

 

I froze at the strange coincidence with my own name, and then pushed myself to remove the rest of the snow from the face of the stone, taking off my glove to better scrub at it. It revealed lines that froze me with horror.

 

_Killed, 4th November 1895_

_in the futile hunt for the Count_

_"The Dead Travel Fast"_

 

I blinked, but the stone remained fixed with that awful message. "Quincey?" I called out blindly. "This stone — "

"What is it?" came his voice from nearby, and I turned to see him standing behind me, with the remains of his luncheon in a greased paper in his hands. But instead of a hunk of bread — how had I not seen it before? — it was a piece of raw meat that had stained his face bloody with its awful juices. My medical training identified it as a human viscera. Panicked, I stepped back from him. "Jack, what's wrong?" he asked, as if nothing was the matter.

"Oh, God!" I exclaimed, and sprang back further when he reached towards me, his hand covered in cannibalistic gore to the elbow. A tombstone hit the back of my knees and arrested my motion. "Don't touch me! How can you eat that?" I was almost retching with horror.

"Eat what? This local food? It isn't so repulsive as all that," Quincey said lightly, as his face distorted and his teeth gained prominence. "But what ails you? You look terrible — " And his blood-stained hand reached toward me again, and I didn't stay to see more, but ran into the woods as if all the devils of Hell were behind me.

As I ran, dodging tombstones that seemed to rear out of the ground towards me and tree branches that swept toward my head, I tried to be rational, tried hard to remain a man of science, not superstition. There must be an explanation for what I had seen — Quincey Morris would never, ever behave like that — there must be some factor I was not thinking of. When at last I stopped, it was not through choice but because I had been tripped by a tree-root which whipped out of the ground and snaked toward my heel. I lay in the mud and fallen leaves beneath a great oak-tree, shivering and hugging myself for vain comfort. I was aware of a low voice murmuring and cursing in broken tones, and realised it was my own. I imagined what I must look like from the outside — a fair madman, raving and clutching at himself as if to imitate the strait-waistcoat he should be wearing.

It came to me in a flash — I was indeed mad! It was the only plausible explanation for my experiences. I must be suffering from hallucinations or some bizarre disorder of the senses. Which meant I could not trust anything that I saw.

Clutching the tree trunk for support, I got to my feet unsteadily and tried to retrace my steps. The trees all around me were dipping and swaying vertiginously as if in a high wind, their leaves whirling about like fragments of flame. I realised I had completely lost my way; might even be heading further into the depths of the forest rather than toward Quincey and the horses. I could see a sinister pale figure flitting from tree to tree behind me, dogging my steps; but seeing more clearly for a moment I realised it was simply another tree-trunk, paler than the others because it had been stripped of its bark. One of my hands felt cold, and I realised I had left a glove behind in my frantic flight.

Despite my attempts to remain calm, I could not control what was happening in my mind, and I began to fear in earnest that it had broken for good. At a loss for what to do, I sat down upon a tree-stump and tried to quiet my ragged breathing. I took out my notebook and began to write down what I was experiencing: it seemed to me that I must do something to prevent myself from becoming perfectly deranged or transported with panic again, and taking down detailed notes has always helped to calm me even in the most frightening situations. The only difference was that in this case, my clinical subject was myself. It worked, at least helping me to maintain some external appearance of control.

I had the desperate desire to converse with somebody -- somebody who knew me well, who was both a doctor and a friend. It was an unspeakable relief to see Van Helsing approach through the trees and take a seat on the tree-trunk across from me.

"Professor," I said, putting aside the notebook, "I'm afraid I've gone mad, completely deranged; I need to be locked in an asylum. It started suddenly today and has been getting worse all this while."

He nodded, and asked me, "What have you taken?"

"That's just it! Nothing at all," I said, almost crying.

"Then, what have you just _stopped_ taking?" he asked me, a knowing look in his stern eyes. Of course — the chloral. "And what are the possible side-effects of a sudden chloral hydrate withdrawal, Doctor?"

I felt mortified not to remember — I was usually his best pupil. "I - I can't recall."

Van Helsing raised an eyebrow. "Friend John, always you were the one to overdo things! You have a classic case of — " He looked at me expectantly.

"Delirium tremens!" I said with relief. "Hallucinations brought about by withdrawal." I wanted to see his nod of approbation, which I always relished as it was so hard to obtain, but when I turned to look at him I saw he had disappeared. Now that I was a little calmer, it came to me that he was with Mrs Harker on his way to the Borgo Pass and that what I had seen was pure hallucination: auditory as well as visual. Nothing that I experienced could be trusted until the delirium had worked its way through my system. Perhaps even this forest wasn't real — though I could feel the rough, solid wood underneath me, which was a comfort as I had not heard of such a perceptual delusion.

I don't know how long I sat there, overwhelmed with utter despair at my condition, before a familiar hand grasped my shoulder. I jumped, startled, half-drawing my knife, then realised with some embarrassment that it was Quincey. I feared to look at his face lest I see further horrors emblazoned there by my brain.

"Thank God, there you are," he said to me. "What happened? You're shaking like a leaf."

I risked a glance at him and saw to my relief that he bore the same kind, courageous face as always. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I believe I'm suffering from a delusional episode. It's the drug - you - you were quite right about it." My voice broke in the admission. "I'm going through some sort of withdrawal."

He blew out a breath. "Well, that about explains it."

"I'm sorry," I repeated meaninglessly.

"Don't worry, we'll get you through it. Is there anything in your bag you can take?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I'm afraid other drugs might worsen the effects — I must simply endure this." I was finally calm enough to consider the total situation, rather than my own sufferings. "But you must leave me here! I've already caused enough delay, you must at all costs ride onward to meet with the launch."

"There's no way on Earth I'd leave you like this, so don't you suggest it again. We'll just have to manage somehow while you recover." Quincey put his hands on my shoulders, comfortingly solid. "Do you think you can ride in this state at all — perhaps if I lead your horse along?"

"I'll try my best."

He nodded. "Stout fellow."

"But are you sure I cannot persuade you?" I said, realising the full extent of the problem. "I'm nothing but a wretched drag on our mission in this condition, and I can't say when I will recover from it — it could be days." I could see a swarm of spiders approaching me from the trees, and, knowing them to be a hallucination, managed to quell my natural impulse to get up and brush away the phantom insects.

"The only place I'd be prepared to leave you is that village, Fundu, and we're already a good way from it now. It will waste less time to lead you along — and who's to say this won't clear up in an hour or two?" Quincey pointed out. His sensible tone gave me enough courage to agree to the experiment. Quincey helped me mount my horse again and I suffered myself to be led along like a blind man; as indeed I effectively was.

Contrary to my friend's optimistic suggestion, my hallucinations showed no signs of reducing by evening. Even when I closed my eyes, they continued to plague me with occasional phantom sounds, and with my eyes open a regular phantasmagoria of disturbing sights appeared, mutating regularly. I reflected that my condition could quite possibly grow worse — from my clinical experience, frequent companions of delirium tremens were exhaustion, fever and seizures. As Quincey made camp for the night, I was barely able to assist him, and picked listlessly at the meal he prepared for us from our supplies.

"How do you feel?" he asked me.

"Wretched. And foolish," I admitted. "This whole terrible situation is of my own making."

"A good night's sleep may yet cure all," Quincey prophesied optimistically. "Do not fear, I'll stay awake to watch."

I wanted to protest that it was impossible for one man to remain awake all night and ride hard the following day, that he was taking an unbearable strain upon himself; but what was the alternative? I was perfectly useless as a watchman, more likely to be disturbed by shadows projected by my own brain than any real threat from wolves or a gypsy raid. So I resigned myself to another restless night, and was prevailed upon to lie down beside the fire while Quincey sat up next to me, a Winchester in his hand.

\--

At last I come to the events that I wished particularly to set down. As sunset approaches, Mrs Harker is crying out for me and weeping in her customary manner; soon she will have some peace at last after a particularly painful day. I'm almost at my wits' end seeking a remedy for her, and though Jonathan Harker presses me daily about her condition I have no hopeful answer for him yet. Laudanum does nothing — or rather, the struggle of managing to administer it to her is so protracted and painful that even when it produces a temporary quiescence, it can hardly be said to be a success. As for the 'talking cure' I must admit that it is as if whenever I speak to her, I fall into a sort of delirium myself — almost convinced of the veracity of her mood of terrible, overwhelming fear. Was it not she, after all, who had a mystical connection to the Count, and who provided a conduit to him through hypnotism? Could it be that there is some truth in her madness — that he is not altogether gone? But no. I sometimes think I am half-way to the mad-house myself, but I saw him killed with my own eyes. The corpse dissolved into dust, and from that there can surely be no coming back.

All of my former resolutions to remain healthy and free of noxious stimulants have fallen by the wayside, even as I know that to dose myself with any drug is to court a relapse of my brain-fever. I recognise that over-indulgence could become a danger to my health, but I really cannot think of another remedy to allow an approximation of a peaceful sleep when Quincey haunts my dreams each night.

Her cries have ceased at last. I will fortify myself with a glass of brandy and begin what surely will be the most painful, but perhaps the most vital part of my account.

\--

The horses were restless that evening. As fresh snow whirled down they tore at their tethers and sometimes whinnied in alarm, until we thought they would break free. Quincey had to periodically get up to calm them in the night, his careful hands and gentle words seeming to grant them a measure of peace. I tossed and turned in my blanket by the fire, my delirium tormenting me and preventing me from the sleep he earnestly wished me. Small animals — snakes, or spiders — seemed continually to want to crawl over me, and I could not always convince myself that they were not real. I lay shivering and only half-asleep.

I began to see things in the falling flakes, strange visions dimly glimpsed in the half-light of the snow, that eerie light which seems to appear when snow is falling, even in the dark. It seemed to me that we were surrounded by a circle of wolves, silently pacing around and around us, their green eyes reflecting the light of the snowstorm. I tried to call out to Quincey, to warn him about them, but my voice was as small as that thin thread of sound one hears in dreams, and he did not seem to notice it. Of course, they were only an illusion, but they appeared fearfully real.

I felt an awful dread, a vast sense of unseen horrors lurking in the darkness all around us, but was frozen in place under my blankets. I felt as if I dared not move a muscle, that if I moved an uncertain terror would become a certain one. Indeed, I was not able to stir at all. I simply looked out at the world through my lashes, and watched.

A woman was appearing from the snow. She seemed at first so faint and scattered that a blink would drive the vision away, formed as her body was from the drifting flakes. As a man sometimes sees a face in the clouds, or in a ripple of water, so she appeared. But she grew nearer and more certain as I watched, hardly breathing, until she seemed as solid as we were. She had a lovely face, surrounded by ripples of auburn hair that shone dimly in the light of the snow. None of the flakes stuck to her — it was as if she was made of ice or polished ivory. Her pale feet were entirely bare.

In my dream or terror-struck delirium I thought Quincey saw her too, and watched motionless as she materialised. She smiled at him, and the sight of her face somehow filled me with both a strange compulsion and a dreamy fear. I could not speak. I could hear the distant howling of wolves, and their awful panting breath far closer at hand.

Quincey stood to meet her, setting his Winchester down carefully by the blankets. He spoke so softly his voice was almost lost in the rush of the falling flakes. "Aren't you cold, little girl?" He could not seem to tear his eyes away from her indecently naked feet.

She shook her head, smiling again, and coquettishly beckoned to him. He stepped forward, and with the tip of one white finger she traced the angle of his brow. I saw him close his eyes a moment.

They spoke together, but I cannot remember what was said: it all had the quality of a dream. The only part of that hallucinated conversation I recall was of Quincey saying, "Don't you want to meet him, too?" and indicating my frozen form.

She gave a low, pleasant laugh, and replied dismissively, "He does not interest me."

I could see that Quincey was indignant on my behalf, but that he was fascinated by her — more fascinated than I can recall him being by any woman — and so his charitable thoughts for me must surely have quickly disappeared. Indeed I saw that they were becoming wrapped up in one another. She took his face between her pale, porcelain hands, and he visibly lost his train of thought.

Gripped by a wordless fear, I tried to get up, but at one glance from her piercing eyes I was held motionless as if some vast hand pinned me to my blankets; my eyelids dropped heavily in a familiar languor, as if some hypnotic drug had been given me. I might have fallen into a deeper sleep then, if not for the sheer unreasoning jealousy that seized me; I wish it had been a nobler emotion, but it was not. Anger and a disgusting possessiveness loosened my limbs, and after what felt like a titanic struggle against an iron will I sat up, with an incoherent shout — to find it had only been a vivid nightmare. Quincey still sat beside me, stoking the fire quietly, and it was not even snowing; the night was quiet and still. There were no wolves, no awful woman, and never had been.

Quincey looked over at me. "What is it, old fellow?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just another hallucination, or a dream — I suppose I must have slept a little." A paranoid thought struck me. "You're still wearing your crucifix, I hope?"

Quincey humoured me and opened the collar of his shirt to show the string of it still securely tied. What comforted me most: the skin of his throat was entirely unmarked, and the puncture marks that I irrationally feared to see there, as on Lucy, were absent. "Never fear," said Quincey, yawning a little. "Day-break isn't far off."

I lay with my eyes open for the short hour or so until dawn. The episode reminded me somewhat of my one experience with opium, and had frightened me in a similar way. As a young man after reading de Quincey I had been curious to try opium for myself, and obtained a few grains of the substance from a pharmacist friend. I ate it at around 9pm one summer's evening, and, gazing at my tea-cup, began to see a scene in miniature: a tiny ship in full sail, buffeted by a tempest. I believe I could even see the sailors moving about on deck, the splashing spray, the lighted windows. When I looked up, it was only 9.15 and for a moment I was disappointed — but the quality of the light had changed: it was growing rather than diminishing. I realised with horror that I had been frozen in place, gazing at my tea-cup, for over twelve hours. I never touched opium again. If my mind broke, what good was I? It was what the world valued me for, after all — my medical knowledge, my studies, my erudition — one foolish overdose and I could wipe it all away and turn myself into a drooling idiot. Perhaps that is why I became fascinated with the mad. The awareness that reality for all of us is but one side of a coin, and a hair's-breadth away, on the other, lies insanity.

 

That must have been the crisis-point of my delirium, for on the next day, the 5th of November, I felt a deal more human, and the hallucinations seemed to have burned themselves out at last. With the coming of the light we surveyed the land ahead of us and saw a sight that thrilled us in the valley below. A leiter-wagon surrounded by Szgany was making its way along at a fair pace from the river-bank, carrying a curious cargo — a large box! They surrounded it in a cluster, and hurried on as though beset.

Quincey turned to me with the light of battle in his eyes, and we spoke in one voice. "The Count!"

I was still a little weak and feverish, but was at least able to ride unaided. The Szgany seemed to sense us coming up on their track and spurred themselves to greater speed, urging the wagon along the jolting ancient road. Through a final rocky pass, we could see an ominous-looking castle perched on a crag ahead of us: it seemed just conceivable that they would reach it before nightfall. At all costs we must prevent them from doing so. We spurred our horses on and rode hard all morning, keeping the wagon in sight. My powers of endurance were sorely tested in our furious pursuit, our jolting progress proving a sore trial to my now-aching head, and I clung to my horse with my knees. Far off, we could hear the howling of wolves. When we were forced to stop and rest the horses I hardly dared to dismount, for fear that I would collapse and so prevent us from continuing. Quincey saw something was wrong and took my arm, helping me down from my good, stalwart chestnut. On the ground I staggered and almost fell, but his grip was like steel and I supported myself upon him.

"How long can you keep this up, Jack?" he asked, lowering me to the ground with care. "You'd better rest. Your health — "

"D--- my health," I swore. "I said I'd be in this at the finish, and by God I shall! Get me my bag," I told him. Quincey fetched it for me and I saw thankfully that the glass syringe was still intact in its little morocco case. I made up a syringe-full of cocaine: a ten-percent solution, and injected myself with it at once. The rush of warm satisfaction and renewed alertness and purpose more than rewarded the sting of the needle. I knew I should pay for such a high dose upon my frail constitution sooner or later, assuming that I lived, but that didn't matter — only that I could ride with him until the bitter end.

As the horses blew and stamped, and the snow fell lightly, I set down my final diary entry with an unsteady hand. _'The horses are nearly ready,'_ I wrote, _'and we are soon off. We ride to death of some one. God alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may be ... '_

I was thinking of my own death as I wrote. How I wish — how I earnestly, futilely wish — that it had transpired so. I hate to set a detailed account of the rest of that fatal day down, and my excuse is but a poor one — that those who have read Mrs Harker's diary know the bald facts of the events. They know that Quincey and I caught up with the Szgany party just as they were reaching the gates of Castle Dracula, that Jonathan and Art attacked from their other side at the same time. That while Art and I covered them with our Winchesters, and Mrs Harker and Van Helsing bravely cut off their retreat, Quincey and Jonathan fought their way through the mass of men on the wagon and flung the Count's box of earth to the ground. That they pried it open, took their knives and destroyed the foul creature even as Quincey was mortally wounded.

The bravest and best man I shall ever know died in my arms, his blood staining my coat as I tried in vain to staunch his wounds. Stabbed by the gypsies in that last desperate attack, he feebly took Mrs Harker's hand as she rushed to his side and smiled gallantly at her, trying to reassure us all. "I am only too happy to have been of service," he said, as I desperately ransacked my bag for bandages. "Oh God!" Quincey cried, and I stopped to support his shoulder as he struggled painfully up into a sitting position. Pointing at Mrs Harker, he declared, "It was worth this to die. Look! look!" The sun was sinking low and in its red beams I saw clearly that the mark on her forehead was gone. The others knelt down and murmured "Amen" to see what he pointed out.

Sinking back down after his last effort, Quincey spoke again. "Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain. See! The snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!" And he closed his eyes.

I pressed a fresh gauze pad to his wound with blood-stained hands, cursing myself for a fool not to have brought a better supply of wadding, but the Professor stopped me.

"He is gone, friend John," he said quietly, and I saw for myself that it was so.

"A true gentleman to the end," whispered Mrs Harker, with tears standing in her eyes.

I believe I let out an incoherent cry of grief and collapsed beside his body. Our friends were forced to tear me away from him, for I would not relinquish my grip even though my rational mind knew that it was as Van Helsing said and there was no medical remedy left. That was the beginning of my brain-fever, and it was a long, terrible time before I emerged from the grip of nightmare into a pale dawn of sanity again.

My work has always been a consolation and a distraction to me, and so I flung myself into it again as soon as I was physically able to do so. The thought of a tour of the continent, as one physician suggested, sickened me — I could not stomach the idea of taking my leisure in the watering-places of Europe while my good friend's body lay fresh in the cold ground. And now that my duty is to care for Mrs Harker, it is of course quite impossible to leave England.

If I were able to, I should like to visit his grave; for I never got the chance to see it. On my third day in the care of the nuns at Strasba, Van Helsing came to tell me that Quincey was buried, and I was crazed enough at that time to imagine that he meant buried alive. The reality of my friend's death still had not reached me. I had not allowed it to. I believe I fought like a demon to be released, and had to be forcibly restrained. The succeeding weeks are a merciful blur to me — I have read my medical notes from that time and understand that I was heavily sedated until the paroxysms ceased. When at last equanimity reigned in my mind, apart from the intrusion of sudden occasional attacks of weeping, I was allowed to return home by easy stages in the care of a nurse who my kind friends had sent for me. There I resumed my work and my studies over the last few months, with what I hope has been a greater compassion for my poor madmen. How easily could I have remained permanently one of their number!

Perhaps I am. Perhaps the morbid weakness in my nature, which caused such an unnatural attachment to a man who was only ever a loyal friend, has at last sapped my sanity for good. I begin to sometimes believe Mrs Harker's outbursts; to feel that there are supernatural forces somehow at work against us once more. That is why I began to write this account, after all — the thought that there was something, anything we missed. But reading through the pathetic little pile of paper again I can find nothing but the bitter shame of my own weakness and degeneracy.

\--

This evening her speech came closer than ever before to the surface of something I could understand. As the sun was setting she spoke quickly, desperately, as if fighting her way past an enforced silence.

"You must free me at once! He is coming!" she cried. "He is coming tonight, and all my entreaties won't stop him. Oh! why won't you listen? Why won’t you let me go?" This last, plaintively.

"Who is coming, Mrs Harker? The Count?" I asked tentatively, lest the idea of her tormentor throw her back into a full hysteria.

"No, no," she said quickly. "It is far worse than that!" My idea of her having a morbid fear of the Count seemed to be entirely dismissed, and I suddenly realised that I had no notion of what was in her mind. Mrs Harker seized hold of my sleeve.

"Who, then?" I asked. "Who is coming?"

She struggled for one long moment to say anything, and then could only repeat, "My friend! Our friend!" before falling at last into a sort of stupor.

She is asleep now, and I hope that this period of rest will calm her nerves once more. I must remind myself not to listen seriously to anything she says. I am drawn to it, despite myself. One of us must be mad, but I am no longer certain which of us it is.

Another injection will perhaps help settle my own nerves and allow me to get some rest tonight, though I must try harder not to make too much of a habit out of it. I shall set straight the papers of this account and make sure it is complete, and then take to my bed. Sitting in my study all night and working until I fall into a stupor in my chair does me no good and perhaps much harm.

\--

He is outside. He wore a wide-brimmed hat so that I could not see his face, but I had an uncanny certainty that it was he — I would know him anywhere. I fled inside the house in a panic, bolting the door behind me with hands that still shake so that I can barely write it down.

Dear God, how can it be? How could he have survived? A part of me knows that he did not, but the greater part of me — the part which calls out to him, and will go on calling out until I am dead — that part recognises him too deeply for words.

He is most likely an hallucination. If he is not, then whatever the case, there can be no good explanation, no happy conclusion — I must remind myself that I witnessed him murdered, that whatever I saw in the garden just now cannot truly be him.

Lord Holmwood was brave enough to destroy the woman he loved, when she became a monster.

But I cannot bring myself to care about what is rational, about what is right and moral, any longer. I can hear, very faintly, a sweet Texas country air, a lovely little tune I remember him humming before to calm and gentle frightened horses. Perhaps I am merely an animal to him now. Probably, even if he is real, he is not interested in me. But just the chance of his regard is enough. It always has been.

In a moment I will go to the window, and open it, and call out to him.

"Come inside!" I will say. "Come in!"

 

**Author's Note:**

> With much appreciation to my magnificent betas kalypsobean and winterhill. Thank you for encouraging me when this fic became much longer than I'd anticipated!


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